Erotic Lullaby For Bedding, After Roethke
Belly belly the hard boiled egg.
I map out of a dream.
Love a long necked boy.
Dance lips! Leaves of legion.
Jelly, yard dog! Leap to June.
Suckle me, honey,
long necked, boney onion.
Why cry when peeled?
Count the rings of a tree,
the circles of a breath.
The nose is a love.
Press me, press me.
Iron me soft.
A breath leans,
nape of jeans falling.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Your Throat Oddly Fish-Shaped - Making Amends
I return to you, a parenthesis in the sea of loneliness.
Each star, each breast, you have removed
in my absence, mourning made permanent,
scars upon your throat oddly fish-shaped.
Astonished, my voice returns, curses, then caresses,
withered left hand free to unravel regret nerve for
nerve, the only net worth mending.
I reserve this one strange act from a year of orthodoxy,
to anoint your feet with tears.
I dry them with my hair, your outstretched arms
a beseeching beyond emptiness, your chest barren
but for my hands remembering the uses of prayer,
kisses but murmurs, rumored stars where swollen sails had been.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Poem For Caravaggio - Contemplating 'The Conversion of St. Paul' At 4 a.m.
to George Elder
In the shorter light, the extended
night of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or palette but make offering for your
own work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Upon reading Naseer Ahmed Nasir's 'Don't Ever Come, O December
'Deserts unnumbered have expanded in me.' - Naseer Ahmed Nasir'
A slight sigh moves sand
though a complete desert
may not notice being fluid
as a river yet static as the
Milky Way where your words pray,
'Fill distance with light. Make me limitless..'
Deserts, limitless, too, each grain a star,
each-as-One, refer to Referring Fire.
We must quarrel with December,
enumerate our grievances to angels
of every month,
'Who will knit dreamlike sweaters?
Who will pick snowflakes falling in the soul? '
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poem by Warren Falcon
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That Salt Adheres
for Karthik
that salt adheres to the palm
proclaiming only this
that purchase requires both
sweat and the one hidden pearl
of scraped touch
much there is in the hand
bequeathed;
beneath the thigh the grit
burns smooth the groove
where you lay
tapered fingers flame
that these lips may chaff/
chafe more the love
from the grain which
skin frames from
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Words Of A Dying Farmer
For W.C.F.
Beat the fields in furrows home.
Hoe a row of young shoots of corn.
To be born anew push three fingers
into the ground. Drop, every other step,
three seeds, then five from the hand.
The earth's alive still with tender things.
Please god and sun the sky will not
harry boys home from school,
will not rule them as cruel fathers do,
their boiling fever for work till weary knees bow,
fingernails tearing on rocks lifted from
red rows behind a redder plow.
Now is the time to say I hated the work of fields,
and I am old. No more to fold the earth.
No more to pull stalks from frost
but to lift this last rock and hurry home.
poem by Warren Falcon
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The Case For Love As Storm
for Crimson Love
This can only go well.
I hold your hand
throughout the storm.
We swell together.
Two seeds break open.
I day your arbor.
You arbor my need.
Let us not plead our
case for love as storm.
Here we are warm in the park after
dark beneath the newspaper wet.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Poetry As Constellation
for Karthik,
'...descend, and of the curveship lend a myth to God.'
You hear
'consolation'
as 'constellation'
when I explain
a poem is a
consolation
work that I
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poem by Warren Falcon
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But That's Not It On A Hartford Train
Riding backwards
each brick is
surprise peripheral.
Gaze shapes itself
solidly
a moment then to movement
succumbs.
Again.
And I am dumb.
Strike no pose
that a poem
could love
much less linger
petulant in a
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Of Humans The Stains They Leave
Angels without knees
aprons spotless starched
as beards of saints
complain of humans
the stains they leave
Overheard
between the fork
and spoon obscenely
crossed
one angel to another:
They call it love
what we are supposed
sublimely to sing of
but frankly all that
pushing and shoving
faces in agony the
cries and curses all
that pulling at flesh
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poem by Warren Falcon
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